


The Adventure Of The Naval Treaty (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [91]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Dogs, F/M, France (Country), Germany, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Politics, Theft, Tired Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:42:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10979754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A fair number of the cases that Sherlock solved involved members of the animal kingdom, and in particular household pets. Here, it was a dog which might well have caused an international incident, but ended up 'just' causing some grievous bodily harm.





	The Adventure Of The Naval Treaty (1888)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginger_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_angel/gifts).



One of the frequent criticisms that I received concerning my original stories was that I would tantalize the public with hints of unpublished cases, only to then fail to publish them later. I am resolved to try to avoid such a thing this time round, but must bend that rule to describe the events following our encounter with the 'Bad Goodes'. Immediately after that case, Sherlock had a short but important case involving a figure fairly high up in the British political establishment, and whilst he solved it easily enough, it involved frequent meetings with his brother Bacchus, which always took it out of him. I noted with alarm that he fell asleep almost instantly every night when we were together, he was so exhausted.

The pressure on my friend since our return from the Continent had been unremitting, and my feeling that he was overdoing things would continue to grow steadily as the year progressed. I was therefore not best pleased when I returned one afternoon to find a private carriage drawn up outside 221B. That and the look of disapproval on our landlady's face when I entered confirmed my worst fears. Mr. Bacchus Holmes had called again. I was about to mount and discover the worst, when to my surprise Mrs. Harvelle beckoned me into her private rooms. Somewhat unnerved (at these times, I always thought about that rifle of hers, although I was moderately certain that I myself had done nothing to incur the lady's displeasure of late, or I would quickly have known it), I followed. Once we were inside, she closed the door firmly and bade me sit down.

“Doctor”, she began, “I am worried about our Sherlock.”

I smiled at her use of the first person plural. Sherlock seemed to always evoke one of two reactions from the female gender, either a wish to mother him from some ladies, or – regrettably far more common - the eying up of him as a potential partner (and the latter often from those who were already married!). I much preferred the former. 

“I have noticed that he seems a little tired of late”, I said. “I presume that his brother is here?”

She pursed her lips as if tasting something foul.

“That ‘personage’” (I could hear the quotation marks) “plays far too much on our dear Sherlock’s generous nature”, she said, sounding quite venomous in her clear dislike of our visitor. “He is a Bad Influence. But the reason that I called you in was because I found our friend asleep when I went up this afternoon.”

“An afternoon nap is not unusual, Mrs. Harvelle”, I observed mildly.

“I know”, she said, “but he never used to take them around this time. This is the third occasion since you came back from the Continent that I have found him thus, and on two of those it looked as if he had fallen asleep whilst reading something, judging from the books lying open on the floor. He needs taking better care of.”

She looked at me pointedly, as if trying to communicate something to me. The woman would have had to have been deaf, dumb and blind not to know that we were rather more than just two gentlemen sharing a set of rooms, and she was far from any of those things. I thought once more of that rifle, and swallowed nervously.

“I had better go up and see if he is all right”, I said, standing up. “I shall watch him more closely in future, Mrs. Harvelle. I promise.”

+~+~+

I knew by this time that Mr. Bacchus Holmes was fully aware that I was not overly fond of him (and that was putting it mildly!), for he looked almost defensive when I entered the room. I looked closely at my friend, and noted that he did indeed look both tired and run-down. I made a mental note that I would find a way to get him some rest, after whatever his brother was here to demand of him. I only hoped that it was important enough to warrant the lounge-lizard's unwelcome presence.

Mr. Bacchus Holmes sat back in the fireside chair.

“Now that your precious doctor friend is _finally_ here”, he said, sounding more than a little put out, “I can begin.”

It warmed me that Sherlock had made his brother wait for my return, but I hid it by turning to my desk for my notebook and pen, before taking my seat at the table. Mr. Bacchus Holmes eyed me sharply, clearly resenting my presence but knowing full well that he had no way of avoiding it. And that made me feel even better, though I managed to refrain from openly smirking.

All right, all right. It was only a small smirk!

“This is going to sound bizarre, even by the standards of your cases, Sherlock”, our visitor began, “but I need your help to find a lost dog.”

I froze in mid-writing, wondering if I had heard correctly. Sherlock, of course, remained unperturbed.

“I presume that there is a reason for such an unusual request?” he said levelly. His brother nodded.

“It is a long story”, he said, sitting back. “It goes back to the government’s purchase of the Khedive’s shares in the Suez Canal in 1875 which, as I am sure you both remember, did not go down well with our Gallic cousins across the Channel.”

That was true, I thought. Mr. Ferdinand de Lesseps had been opposed by the British in his efforts to build his canal across the desert to link the Mediterranean and the Red Seas, the British preferring to use the land crossing through the nearby Holy Land. The canal had been finished some nineteen years ago, and the British government's sudden acquisition of a large part of it just six years afterwards had enraged Paris, as they had considered Egypt to be very much 'their area'.

“Like a lead baguette”, I muttered. Sherlock smiled at that.

“We were fortunate that the French were still reeling from having Prussian troops marching through Paris a few short years before”, his brother went on. “Since then, the three Great Powers of Western Europe have played a diplomatic _pas de trois_ ; France and Great Britain have edged steadily closer, whilst Germany has been doing its level best to keep them apart. Another Franco-German war would be disastrous if the Germans won, for they could then take the industrial north-east of their old enemy and pretty much cripple them, plus they would be a significantly larger power – on the Continent at least – than ourselves. Worse, they might even try to drag Belgium in and seize the Scheldt.”

“Do you think such a war is likely?” I asked dubiously. Great Britain was a guarantor of Belgium's independence because of the Scheldt, the huge natural bay which offered the perfect base for any invasion of the British Isles, though whilst Britannia still ruled the waves, that was clearly off the cards. But the great strides in naval technology of recent decades had made keeping control of the world's trade routes increasingly harder (and costlier) for Britannia, and had not the great Napoleon himself once said that six hours' control of the Channel could make him master of England?

“I believe that it is almost certain”, our visitor said. “The new German emperor may be our dear Queen’s son-in-law, but his health is fading and he is not long for this world, plus his son and heir William is extremely militaristic. The boy is Frederick the Great all over again!”

“So how does a lost dog come into all this?” Sherlock asked.

“We are currently negotiating a new settlement with the French over our interests around Egypt”, our guest sighed. “It is not going well. There is a strong faction in Paris which resents the fact that, whilst they built the canal which we were so heavily against, it is now our influence that is strongest in the area. Which is unfortunate, because as well as the negotiations that are public, we are also dealing privately with the French too.”

He glanced across at me. I did not immediately guess why, but Sherlock surprised me by actually growling at his brother.

“If you utter one single word about John that questions either his trustworthiness or his patriotism”, he almost snarled, “I shall physically remove you from this room. By the door if you are lucky, or the window if you are not!”

I was quietly pleased that Mr. Bacchus Holmes actually recoiled from his brother’s anger. Sherlock very rarely lost his temper, but he could be scary when roused. 

“I am sure that he is both trustworthy and patriotic”, our guest said, rather quickly. “In addition to the public talks between the prime ministers of both countries, a private deal is being struck. It is not just the Germans that we have to deal with. Rumours are that the Russians are looking to massively increase the size of their navy, and under the Two-Power Rule*, the British economy would find it hard to pay for the expansion of the Fleet, especially given how expensive modern ships are. Plus there are rumours of a Franco-Russian alliance to worry about, which might mean we could find ourselves losing control of the seas if we and the French found ourselves on opposite sides in a future war.”

“That is unlikely, surely?” I asked. “Not with the threat from Germany.”

“Hence we are seeking to tale the French out of the equation”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes explained. They promise not to enter an arms race with us, and we give them technology, naval protection where we are stronger, and some trade concessions. In any future conflict, their ships could focus on the Mediterranean whilst ours patrol the open seas.”

“Does that not rather leave us dependent on a permanent alliance with the French?” Sherlock queried. “Surely that is a little unwise, bearing in mind there are so many points of conflict between our empires?”

His brother groaned.

“And yet despite all that, the thing threatening to bring the whole house of cards down around us?” he moaned. “A bloody Pekingese dog!”

We both looked at him, waiting for further explanation.

“The leading French diplomat in the negotiations – the secret ones – is a fellow called Monsieur Gilles Rosberg. I know, a German-sounding name, but he comes from Lorraine, which the French lost in the recent war. He hates the Germans with a passion – he lost his ancestral family home because of them, a large one - but unfortunately, we managed to incite his one other passion; his dog, Montmorency. He brought it with him for the last round of talks, and it ran away.”

“If someone saddled me with that for a name, I would probably run away too”, I muttered. Sherlock smiled at me.

“Last week they were at Totteridge, the prime minister’s country retreat, for discussions about the naval treaty”, our visitor went on. “Monsieur Rosberg, his wife and secretary were staying in a small cottage on the edge of the estate, along with both their security detail and a British one. He brought the dog to the house for talks, and it was allowed to run free with the other dogs in the garden. And that was when it got away.”

“And the French are prepared to throw away a treaty because of a dog?” I asked, astonished.

“I think that it is Mademoiselle Rosberg who is the driving force behind it”, our guest explained. “The dog is hers, not her husband’s, and she is devastated by the loss. I am not usually terrified by the female gender, but I would not wish to be on the wrong side of that lady for any length of time! She and her husband have returned to France, but they have insisted that their secretary remain at the cottage and continue searching for the mutt.”

Sherlock looked up sharply.

“How long does he plan to stay there?” he asked.

“I would presume at least until the Rosbergs call for him, when they return for further talks next week”, his brother said. 

“What day?” Sherlock asked.

“Thursday.” He looked shrewdly at his younger brother. “Sher, what do you know?”

I was silently overjoyed to see the look of sheer annoyance on Mr. Bacchus Holmes’s face. Whether or not Sherlock actually did know something, it was always highly pleasurable to see his lounge-lizard of a brother irritated. Sherlock stared pointedly at his brother, and I could actually hear the latter grinding his teeth in frustration.

“ _Sherlock_ , what do you know?” he amended, clearly reluctantly.

“Are the Rosbergs aware of your involvement in the matter?” Sherlock asked.

“No”, his brother said, “though they may reason that the government might consult you at some point.”

“Who is this faithful servant, who stays in a foreign country to search for his mistress’ beloved dog?” Sherlock asked.

“A Monsieur Charles de Bréhaut”, his brother answered. “Not an Anglophile by any stretch of the imagination; he has been with the family for decades. He was Monsieur Rosberg’s father’s secretary before he became the son's.”

“John and I will investigate this case for you, Bacchus”, Sherlock said with a smile. “We will spend tomorrow and Wednesday morning sorting out matters, and should have some news for you by Wednesday afternoon, if all goes to plan.”

“What are you going to do?” his brother demanded. Sherlock shook his head with another smile.

“Governments have their secrets, and so do consulting detectives”, he said cryptically. “We shall not keep you from Her Majesty’s demands on your precious time. Good day.”

Mr. Bacchus Holmes looked very much as if he wanted to push the matter, but he clearly surmised (correctly, in my opinion) that he had no chance of getting anything further from his little brother. With a sigh he got up, bowed to us and left. 

“You enjoyed that”, I said in a slightly accusatory tone once we were alone. He smiled at me.

“I shall need my faithful friend tomorrow and Wednesday, if the surgery can spare you”, he said, sounding tentative as always. As if I would not always put him before the demands of a load of strangers, for about half of whom paying their doctor's bill was seen as some sort of 'optional extra'. 

“Of course”, I smiled.

+~+~+

The following day we set out after breakfast, but instead of travelling north as I had expected, Sherlock instructed our driver to head towards the Museum at Kensington.

“I am meeting someone there”, he explained. “A Mr. Frances Galton. He is a most extraordinary man.”

I pursed my lips. Whilst I too had read of that man’s many achievements in the fields of mathematics and science, he had also been responsible for formalizing and giving some credence to the field of study which he had called eugenics. This seemed to be taking the studies of his half-cousin Mr. Charles Darwin (whose works I did admire) a little too far, by suggesting that we would at some future time be able to 'breed' better people just as over the centuries we had bred better animals. I had an uneasy feeling as a doctor that that was one can of worms Mankind might just regret opening. 

Sherlock did not ask me to go into the Museum with him, as he said that he was only collecting an item that he had asked Mr. Galton for by telegram the day before. Whatever it was, it must have been very small, because he did not emerge encumbered by any additional object that I could see. He called out “King’s Cross Station” to the cab-driver, and we rumbled off northwards again.

“We are going to Totteridge?” I asked. 

To my surprise he shook his head.

“I do not wish our presence to be detected in any way”, he explained. “We shall take the train all the way to Barnet and spend the night there. I am afraid that we will have an early start in the small hours of tomorrow morning, and there will be an element of criminality involved. If you would rather avoid that part…”

I gave him such a look. He stopped, but I detected the slightest of smiles on his lips. Clearly my determination to stick by his side had pleased him.

+~+~+

Our inn at Barnet was mediocre, most probably because it was the only one in the area, the station being some distance from the town it purported to serve. I noticed with a little alarm how quickly my friend tired, and how he fell asleep on the bed without pulling the covers over him. I removed only his shoes as I did not wish to risk waking him, and covered him up before slipping in behind him. He looked so small and helpless in his sleep, and I silently thanked God for bringing this wonderful man into my life.

It was a strange facet of Sherlock’s character that, whilst he was not a morning person in any way, shape or form, he could when needed rouse himself at almost any hour. I was still fast asleep when I realized he was standing by my bed, dressed and ready to go.

“Come, John”, he smiled. “There is breaking and entering to be done. Or at least breaking.”

I managed to pull myself together, had a quick wash down, dressed and followed my friend silently. 

About the only good part about our choice of resting-place was that it had a back staircase, and we were able to leave undetected. It was a two mile walk to our destination, one of the several country houses of the then-prime minister, the Marquess of Salisbury. The road from Barnet ran through the village, crossing its main road to run right up to the main gates. Sherlock gestured to me to follow him along the road running east.

“I doubt that anyone will be up”, he said, “but I would rather avoid even the slightest risk of detection. Not when the security of empires is at stake.”

I nodded, and followed him round for half a mile until we found a place where the wall had degraded somewhat. We made it safely into the grounds, and I could immediately see the huge bulk of the main house silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Sherlock immediately led me off down a small side-path; clearly he knew his way around the place. We finally came to what seemed to be our destination, the door of a small cottage which lay next to a large bricked-up archway in the wall.

“This used to be another gatehouse”, Sherlock explained in a whisper, “but the Cecils had it closed up. This is where Monsieur de Bréhaut resides.”

“You think that he kidnapped the dog?” I asked, surprised.

Sherlock smiled, and I saw his teeth glint in the moonlight. Then he produced a small tube, and applied its contents to the door hinges.

“Oil, to prevent squeaking”, he whispered.

Once he had finished, he replaced the tube and pulled out a lock-pick, with which he easily forced the simple lock. He then opened the door about a foot, before exchanging the lock-pick for what looked like a small, silver whistle. At least, I thought it was a whistle, but when he blew it, nothing happened.

“Huh?” I whispered un-intelligently.

He put his finger to his lips and smiled knowingly at me. I was puzzled – until I heard the patter of tiny paws approaching the gap in the window, and a small scruffy rug of a dog squeezed through the gap. Sherlock immediately offered it a biscuit, which the dog sniffed warily at before accepting. The detective scooped the happy dog up into his hand, leaving the door open and moving back down the path with me following.

+~+~+

The following day, I discovered just how cruel Sherlock could be when provoked. It proved to be an incredibly painful - if well merited - lesson for someone.

We met in a room at his brother Gaylord's latest hotel, and I knew that Sherlock had already smuggled the dog into the adjoining room, where it had a plentiful supply of food. He had also had a vet in to check it over, to confirm that it had survived its ordeal unharmed. We were to meet Monsieur Rosberg here, and presumably reunite him with his lost dog. 

I cannot say that I was favourably impressed by the French diplomat. My mind sprang back that old Napoleonic joke about the best place to hide anything from a Frenchman was under a bar of soap, because Monsieur Rosberg had gone to the other extreme; his cologne was so strong that I positively reeled back on meeting him.

“You have found dear Montmorency?” he demanded at once. “His English was impeccable, with barely a hint of his native accent.

“I have”, Sherlock smiled. “Safe and sound, and none the worse for his ordeal.”

The Frenchman hesitated.

“And the people who put him through this?” he asked. “You have caught them?”

Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“They will most definitely get what is coming to them”, he said.

Monsieur Rosberg smiled back. Sherlock's smile suddenly vanished.

“Won’t you?” he said firmly. The diplomat's smile faded.

“Pardon?”

“I know everything”, Sherlock said. “France is not my country, but I do not believe that your government will be overly happy to learn that you have betrayed them to their German enemies.”

“Sir, I protest!”

“You trained Montmorency in secret, so that when he heard the sound of a dog-whistle, which humans cannot of course hear, he would head straight for it”, Sherlock said sternly. “You had Monsieur de Bréhaut observing from your cottage base, and when the dogs were playing in the garden, he blew the whistle. Montmorency ran to him, and your servant has been keeping him semi-drugged ever since.”

“That is pure speculation!” the diplomat insisted hotly, although I noted he looked decidedly worried.

“The doctor and I freed Montmorency from his captivity yesterday morning, by the simple expedient of using a second dog-whistle” (of course, I thought!). “The only problem with drugging a dog that size was that the dosage had to be small to be on the safe side, which meant that the one time he might be awake was early mornings. That was when we called. You, sir, are a traitor and a scoundrel!”

“You cannot prove any of this!” the diplomat almost shouted.

“You will resign your post immediately, and will ready yourself to leave the country”, Sherlock said firmly. “France, as well as England. I am sure that Berlin will welcome one of its own.”

“And if I do not?” the man sneered.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. He smiled his most dangerous smile. I did not tremble. 

_Look, it was cold in that room!_

“Are you testing me?” my friend said quietly.

“I think, sir, that you are, as you English say, bluffing", Monsieur Rosberg said firmly. "The French government would not want to risk such a public scandal.”

Sherlock rose and walked across to the connecting door. He paused.

“The French government, Monsieur Rosberg, is the least of your problems!”

He opened the door, and I stared in surprise. The doorway was filled with the largest member of the female species I had ever seen, a veritable Valkyrie. She was staring furiously at Monsieur Rosberg, and the fact she was holding a clearly happy Montmorency did not in the least detract from a look indicating very clearly that physical violence was imminent.

“Gilles!” she thundered, and oh Lord, she had a voice to match her size. “Is what this nice man says true?”

Monsieur Rosberg flushed an alarming shade of white, and took a step back.

“Uh”, he managed.

The lady, presumably Mademoiselle Rosberg, had to actually edge slightly sideways to get her huge frame through the doorway, then advanced on her husband (although incredibly, she still found the time to send a simpering glance at my friend!). Her target looked pleadingly at Sherlock, who shrugged and gave him an 'I warned you' look, then turned to flee and promptly fell over the rug. My friend gestured to me, and the two of us slipped out of the door. The last two things we heard were a strangled “Beloved....” from Monsieur Rosberg followed by a loud yelp that, I suspected, did not come from the dog.

“That was a little cruel”, I said once we were outside (I suppose that my reproof might had had more weight had I not had to stop laughing first). Sherlock grinned, his eyes crinkling at the edges as they always did when he truly smiled.

“I did offer him a chance to be reasonable”, he said. “I am sure that Monsieur de Bréhaut had sent him a warning telegram to alert him of the dog's disappearance, so he must have feared the worst. But he chose not to co-operate. Now he must face the consequences of that decision.”

A thud came from the room behind us, followed by a drawn out scream and some angry barking. I winced. Sherlock led me away down the corridor, and we went down to the waiting-room next to the entrance hall.

“I think that if Monsieur Rosberg survives his wife's understandable annoyance, he will prove amenable to my suggestion”, Sherlock smiled.

“If he survives”, I echoed. “So he is a German agent?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“He presumably went to the Germans after his homeland became part of their Empire, and offered to use his position in the French government to damage the country's ties with Great Britain”, he said. “He will most probably be given his old house in Lorraine, as the price of his betrayal.”

There was a small commotion around the reception desk at that moment, and three of the hotel staff ran towards the staircase. I smiled.

“It seems that Mademoiselle Rosberg must have been really annoyed”, I said. “Germany may not have much left by the time she has finished!” 

+~+~+

Our next case would also have a naval element, involving a captain who was not tired, and something that was almost... preternatural.

**Author's Note:**

> *In order to retain control of the world's sea lanes and protect our vital trade, the Two-Power Rule had come about. It stated that the British Navy had to be at least ten per cent larger than the combined fighting strength of the second- and third-most powerful navies in the world.


End file.
